Horace.
[Rubbing his eyes.] What a queer dream! [He goes up to the door, opens it, then returns and sits by table.] So vivid! [He sees the brass bottle on the floor.] Open! [Looking inside it.] Empty! H'm, better get it out of the way.
[He takes the bottle in one hand and the cap in the other, and carries them into the bedroom on right. The moment he has gone there is a rush of wind, and then a heavy thud on the balcony outside, and Mr. Wackerbath, a stout, prosperous-looking, elderly gentleman, in tall hat, frock-coat, white waistcoat, &c., reels through the open window into the room, and sinks into the armchair on left of tablet where he sits puffing and blowing.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Feebly.] Where am I? How did I——? [He takes off his hat.] Ah, of course! I remember now. [He rises as Horace enters from bedroom.] Mr.—ah—Ventimore, I think? Mr. Horace Ventimore?
Horace.
[Slightly surprised.] Yes, that's my name. [Offering chair on right of table.] Won't you sit down?
Mr. Wackerbath.
Thank you—I will. [He sits down.] I—I ought to apologise for dropping in on you in this—ah—unceremonious way—but I acted, I may say—ah—on a sudden impulse.
Horace.